


harlem

by espinosas



Series: newt lives [2]
Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: And Thomas has a thing for his hair being pulled, And nail-painting, Fluff, M/M, Oops, smut but not quite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 22:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13580322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/espinosas/pseuds/espinosas
Summary: Time, it's a funny thing.Or,Newt lives to the end and experiences Paradise with Thomas.





	harlem

Time, it’s a funny thing.

They have nothing  _but_ time now. They’ve been here a couple weeks and Newt isn’t sure how to adapt to it, isn’t even sure he can. He isn’t the only one; Minho runs daily as soon as the sky lights up, his excuse being he’s scouting for materials and not that he simply doesn’t know how to stop. It’s in their blood now, all of them. It’s all they know.

And now they’re at a permanent halt.

Gally seems to have his hands permanently on something, the forefront of constructing their new homes.  _Homes_. That’s pretty funny, too - nobody wants to mention just how similar their community is to the Glade, even days in.

He can hear it now, actually - him hammering away at something. Come to think of it, it was probably what had woken him up earlier, the sun only just teasing the mountain.

“You alright up there?”

Newt thumbs the spine of the book he’s reading, a gift from Sonya found on a supply run off of the island, to look down at the boy with his head in his lap.

Thomas’ lips pull up in a smirk, teasing, although it drops almost immediately as his eyes search Newt’s face for something more. He was worried.

“Just daydreamin’,” He smiled, “‘m fine.”

Thomas hummed, apparently satisfied, taking Newt’s free hand into his and tracing the lines ingrained into the skin of his palm. He pulled his hand to his lips, pressing delicate, slow, torturous kisses to each scrape, scar, before moving to his wrist.

“You sure?” He mumbles against skin, as if the thing at the forefront of his mind isn’t Thomas and Thomas only.

“Positive,” Newt stifles a sigh at the contact, forcing a nod as Thomas’ lips spread up in a lazy smile. Thomas releases his hand, clambering up where his limbs tangle together in one, lax movement and suddenly he has a lap full of Thomas.

His lips find Newt’s pressure point, pretty eyelashes feather-light against Newt’s neck. He sucks skin between teeth, cupping the back of Newt’s head. He feels lightheaded, head dipping to the side and pressing up into the warmth of Thomas’ mouth.

Mumbled into the space below his ear, “What’re you reading?”

Newt lets his grip on the book fall slack, uncaring as he hears it hit the floor, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t notice death staring him in the face if Thomas was there. He was beyond being in a trance. Thomas grins, his satisfaction clear.

Lips travel his throat, tongue and teeth follow, until they hover over Newt’s own, waiting.

Newt leaned up, instantly, his sigh into Thomas’ mouth muffled. Thomas’ hand is still cupping the back of his head, delicately so, his fingers tangled in the hair at his nape, and he tilts Newt’s head up. His knees brace Newt’s hips, and Newt’s hands find the stretch of Thomas’ abdomen not covered, making a trail along muscles that ripple beneath his touch.

It isn’t long at all before Thomas presses their tongues together, headfirst and desperate and almost definitely not thinking of anything but the pleasure he’s feeling in the moment. Because that’s who Thomas is, and he can’t get enough of it. He’s hasty, throwing himself into every situation with little care, and who was Newt to know that that wasn’t limited to his role as their leader?

Nimble fingers pop the buttons of his shirt, Thomas’ moan into his mouth muffled as Newt tugs at his hair. _Interesting._ He repeats the action when Thomas gets to the last button, and he pulls back to moan directly into the Brit’s ear.

“Do it again,” He rasps, voice distant and sending liquid heat down Newt’s spine and straight to his groin.

So, of course, he does.

Thomas’ hips buck up as he fumbles with the seam of Newt’s pants, intoxicated by the feeling. Newt’s hands fall to Thomas’ back, meeting bare skin and pulling him closer, for Thomas to stumble in his haste. He grips Newt’s shirt as he falls, and of course, Newt falls to the floor with him.

Thomas’ back hits the floor and he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as Newt snorts a laugh.

“I hate you,” Thomas whines, pulling Newt back down to join their mouths.

“You’re such a shank,” Newt presses to the corner of his mouth, sitting up to grin down at him. He ran his hand through the hair breaching Thomas’ forehead, teeth bared as a giggle escaped where Thomas shuddered, despite himself.

“ _H_ _ate you_ ,” He repeats, the grin on his face and thumbs rubbing circles into Newt’s hips suggesting everything but.

Newt’s grin falls to an expression that screams fondness, eyes soft as he takes a good look at the boy beneath him. His hair juts out at every angle, lips swollen and wet and inviting, but his eyes make the Brit’s expression drop completely. He’s looking up at Newt, doe eyes wide and wet, as though Newt is going to disappear any second.

Thomas sits up with Newt on his lap this time, and cups his face, thumb trailing his cheekbone. Newt is back on the Berg in an instant, heart jackrabbiting as Thomas holds him, coaxes him through everything, the only time he’s even really seen him think something through. Or maybe he hadn’t, and Newt’s comfort was merely as ingrained into his being as the need to put everyone before himself.

He lets Thomas bring him back with soft words and eyes boring into his, before he kissed his way down Newt’s chest, agonizingly slow. His hand is massaging Newt’s leg, nimble digits pressing into tender tissue as Newt adjusts on his lap. When he gets to his hip, teeth teasing the seam of Newt’s waistband and hand spanning his back, Newt gives in completely.

+

Alby’s name had been the first carved and Teresa’s the last.

Thomas stepped back, the chisel in his grip shaking as he drew in a heavy breath. Newt took it from his hand without question, squeezing his fingers in an attempt at comfort. Thomas kept hold of it, winding their fingers together without a word spoken in the space between them. And he supposed they weren't needed, the thrum of each other’s pulse all the reassurance they needed that the other was safe and alive and breathing.

“She’s still with us, in her own way,” He smiled, running his hand over Alby’s name. “They all are.”

At the first contact, the pad of his index pressing onto the first letter, he was struck by the feel of safety. Of order, stability, sacrifice. Alby had been the physicality that represented the mirage of home. Losing him had hurt Newt more than he’d like to admit. He plagued his eyelids at night, spilled from his lips like a ritual, followed by Chuck, Winston, even Thomas. Visions of blood swirling at his feet, his own sometimes, usually his friends’.

His mind flitted back to the image of Thomas, the area surrounding him tinged by smoke as he sobbed over his body. He’d refused to think about it after he woke, after they arrived here, but how could he not? The flare may not grip him anymore, eating away at his mind, but that didn’t mean his brain had halted. How naive, he thought, to believe that he would be in any better a state than he was in that maze, walls choking him and making his skin itch, because they’d stopped running for their lives. Order had been the only thing that kept that niggle at bay, and he held onto the distant sound of Gally hammering away orders to the other builders like a lifeline.

Thomas’ chest pressed to his back then, arms snaking around his waist, and Newt let his eyes slip shut. Newt took the chisel and let it drop to their feet and his shoulders felt a little lighter, a minute chip off of the wall.

Still, it allowed him to breathe without feeling his stomach churn.

Thomas smelt of the shampoo he’d used this morning - and Newt almost laughed right then  and there, too. They had the luxury of time, of security, to use bloody  _shampoo_ now. Even in the Glade, washing had a strict timetable to stick to, and stone cold water. He thought of the mornings spent in line with Minho and Ben, half-asleep and grumpy and about ready to kill the boy in front of him for those sacred two minutes of blissful purgatory.

His heart lurched again, and he tightened his grip on Thomas’ hands. The other boy began to run his thumb along the back of his hand.

 _I could get used to this,_ Winston had said when they first thought they were free, he could still see his smile as he relaxed.

His name resided by Jeff and George’s, letters angry and harsh. Minho’s work.

He knew that he’d began to think the same of this safe haven already. They all did. It felt different this time, permanent,  _genuine_.

He opened his eyes again, looking ahead at the horizon. It was still pretty early, maybe just before Noon, only a handful of the community up and about, meaning he could hear the call of the ocean perfectly fine. He breathed in a lungful of air, salt on his tongue, calmed by the weight at his back and the light dancing across water.

He wanted a future here, and he didn’t mind so much that it seemed too good to be true.

+

Newt awoke to lips on his neck, unpracticed and lazy, Thomas probably having only recently woken too.

Newt pushed him up with a smile, gentle, pressing his own to Thomas’ jaw with one eye cracked open. “Hey, love.”

Thomas faltered, pretty face flushed pink, and he licked over his lips; a nervous habit. His hair fell in his face, almost hiding his eyes, and Newt pushed it up and out of the way.

Thomas’ lips pulled up as he stared down at the Brit, rubbing at his eye. “Sleep alright?”

“Good enough, I think you nearly made me explode, though. Bloody furnace, you are.”

Thomas’ cheeks dye red as he mumbles an apology.

Newt wanted to tease him, could feel the sarcasm on his tongue die out out when Thomas suddenly clambered off of their bed -  _their bed_ \- with a quiet groan. He made to grab at a steaming mug on the table nearby. Newt made grabby hands at the premise of hot cocoa, and Thomas chuckled under his breath.

He guzzled down the drink, making sure to leave the little marshmallows for last. He picked one from the sludgy mess of sugar, pressing it into Thomas’ mouth with a lazy grin.

“Good?” He inquired, and Thomas’ eyes flutter shut as he revels in the rare treat of something so sweet. He pressed an offhand kiss to the mole to the right of his lips in thanks and Thomas’ flush spread down his chest.

“Brenda and Gally found a cafe on their run,” He shrugged, running his hand up and down Newt’s arm, “I might have stolen a jar?”

“And came back to bed?” Newt hummed. He didn’t need to look away from the boy hovering over him to know there were at least three. Newt nuzzled into his neck, warmth settling in his chest and making him giddy with the overwhelming prospect of how absolutely fucking gone he was for the person below him.

“You’re lovely, Tommy.” He paused, “Gally’s gonna kick your bloody arse, though.”

Thomas pressed his lips to Newt’s hair with a hum and they lay in silence once more. It was then that Newt realized it was raining, the first time since their arrival weeks ago, heavy drops unleashed on the roof above them.

“I’m sure I’ll survive.”

Newt batted at his shoulder with a sleepy chuckle. “Suppose you’re not gonna be out helping out today, then?”

He felt Thomas grin into his hair. “Mm. Sucks that I have no other way to entertain myself.”

Newt snorted before he yawned an agreement. “A bloody tragedy.”

+

Newt sucked in a breath, running a hand through the hair that fell in his eyes as another crash of thunder sounded in the distance.

The rain hadn’t stopped all morning. When they’d finally pulled themselves out of bed, they found the majority of the community huddled together in the central hut that lay further into the forest, designed for meetings. Instead, children huddled together, the smell of paint stagnant in Newt’s nostrils, Jorge and Fry hovering over them, trying and failing to entertain them.

Brenda had her own handful, hands flailing wildly as she told them of their time in the Scorch. God, it felt like a lifetime ago, her scar up on show as several reached out to it, faces full of wonder.

He reached for his arm beneath his jacket sleeve automatically, expecting protruding arteries and a pulse half as slow as it should be. He flushed, grateful that nobody’s attention had diverted to him, and he picked up the pace.

“Hey,” He began, Minho spinning around to face him immediately. His smile began as something small and genuine, squeezing Newt’s shoulder in greeting, before his eyes dipped to Newt’s collar and his lips twisted up.

“You get bit on your way down here this morning? Some animal with a thing for lanky necks that we don’t know about?”

Newt snorted, pushing the Asian’s shoulder. “Bloody comedian you are, you know that?” He caught sight of Thomas twirling a girl no older than five, and he cared little for Minho’s scoff when he grinned. “You should consider making a career out of it.”

“Hey,” Minho’s smirk fell to something resembling maturity, “I haven’t seen you more happy than you’ve been since-”

_His leg, Alby, Chuck, Winston, the Scorch, the Flare._

“-we got here, and I don’t know how much of that is because of Thomas, but I’m happy for you, yeah? No jokes here.”

Minho’s looking at him with an assured smile, eyes set on Newt’s own.

Newt lurched forward, dismissing the way his leg protests, and gathers as much of Minho in his arms as he can. Minho huffs out a laugh, his arms coming to wrap around his torso. It’s an awkward angle, far too much of Newt’s hair in Minho’s face and Newt can’t move without stumbling, but they make it work. They remain in the same position long enough that Newt feels a small hand tug at his pant leg.

He steps back, offering Minho a sheepish, lopsided grin, to crouch down in front of the girl. Black hair curls around her jaw, bright eyes staring up at him, face covered in streaks of primary colours. Lily, his brain supplies. He’s hit by just how much she looks like Teresa.

“Do you want to paint with me, Newt?”

And, of course, they do.

They stay until the table is full of painted macaroni and random wood blocks coated in glitter and glue that drains to the floor in heavy amounts. Minho’s hair is full of sequins, a sparkling contrast against the color of his hair, and Newt supposed he doesn’t fare much different.  

“Neenee,” Minho snorts at the newly-appointed nickname that Lily has appointed him, his hand on the table in front of him as she paints Minho’s nails blue. “Is Thomas your girlfriend?”

Minho howls at that, and a foreign flush fills Newt’s cheeks as he bats at his knee. He turned to the girl and smiled a little. “Something like that.”

She grinned, and the nail polish journeys Minho’s thumb in her glee. “He’s very nice, he gave me glitter!”

Newt looked behind them to where Thomas and Harriet were handing out slices of fruit to a line of their people. The younger boy stuck his hand up, Harriet turning and waving too. Minho looked over and blew them a kiss.

Lily jumped off of the chair with an insistent tap of Minho’s arm. “Do you like your hands?”

The dark-haired boy looked down at the polish that coated more of his skin than his actual nails, and grinned up at her. “They’re awesome, Lily. Maybe the best manicure I’ve ever had.”

She turned to Newt again, hiding behind her hair. “Can I paint yours red please? Sonya said it’s your  _most_ _favorite_  kind of color.”

“Of course!” And he offered her his hand immediately.

She soon falls asleep after having painted Newt’s hands and then Thomas’ after he’d made his way over, curled into Newt’s side, snoring softly. Thomas was perched beside Minho, feet dangling off of the table, humming as the rain continued to fall outside.

Newt catches their feet together with a grin that widens as Minho rolls his eyes, careful not to wake the girl beside him.

“Hey,” Minho turns to Thomas, knocking his shoulder, “You know anything about the jars of cocoa powder that went missing this morning?”

“No clue,” He deadpanned, shooting Minho a bright smile, “sorry.”

Minho narrowed his eyes, turning to gauge Newt’s reaction. The Brit attempted nonchalance, lips pursed in what he hoped conveyed curiosity, as Thomas bit the inside of his cheek.

“You’re both ugly shanks, you know that? You better bring me one tomorrow, read me a nice little bedtime story, tuck me right in. You know how pissed Gally was?”

Newt’s twisted smirk mirrored Thomas’ own. “You seem to make a habit of worrying over him lately. Don’t you think, Tommy?”

“Mm. You got something on your mind, Min?”

Any lick of humor dropped from his face, and his eyes didn’t leave Thomas’ as he reddened. “You’re a dumb shank, is what’s on my mind. Both of you.”

Thomas threw his head back as he laughed, long neck exposed, and something dances in Newt’s belly. Minho didn’t even bother pretending to be mad, smiling as he moves to take Lily’s sleeping form, mumbling how it would be night soon, how her mother would want her asleep.

Newt nods, clambering off of the surface as Minho’s figure disappears. He rubbed at his knee, the joint protesting as he stretches. Thomas pulls his arm over his shoulder without a word, their bodies slotting together.

“Wanna go-”

Home. They have a home now, just the two of them. Sure, it was a shitty little hut, one of the first crafted in a hurry when they first arrived, but it was theirs. All of it, from the little, rickety table, to the bed they barely fit, to the pile of books Newt had hidden beneath it topped by Chuck’s figurine.

“Yes,” He cuts in, the warmth in his chest overpowering the cold biting at his leg.

They get outside to the beach completely empty, the sun’s farewell illuminating each grain of sand, blade of grass, each mole on Thomas’ face. He finds himself dumbstruck, the sight before him captivating beyond words. Thomas is helping him toward their hut when Newt stops him with a hand against his chest.

“Can we- I just want to watch.”

Of course, Thomas understands, of course he does. They sit with their backs against a log, the sun burning away above the mountain behind their eyes, and Newt is sure he isn’t the only one whose heart lurches at the mingling of old and new, their past and future. He turns to Thomas, mind reeling over the sounds of the maze’s gears churning away, and the younger offers a smile that stems anything but the fire in his chest.

He doesn’t mean for it to come out, hurried and barely a whisper falling from his tongue. “I love you.”

Thomas’ eyes widen, brows in a perfect arch as he processes it. Newt’s hand flies up to his face as he squeezes his eyes shut. “I didn’t mean to- _I mean._ It wasn’t meant to come out like that, Tommy, I have no clue why I-”

“I do, too. You-” He chokes around a laugh of shock, “I love you, too. I do, I mean.”

"Oh."

They watch the other for a moment, rays painting them golden, and Newt isn’t sure which one of them is first, but suddenly they’re laughing. He realizes then that it’s still raining, Thomas’ hair flat to his head and their clothes stuck to their skin. He reached forward, snapping out of whatever haze Thomas had him under, to press a kiss to the mole beside his mouth. Thomas shudders a breathy laugh, and tilts his head to catch him where he falls.

Newt isn’t sure how long they stay like that, wrapped up in each other, but he pulls away to their friends making their way over. He ducked his head to nuzzle into Thomas’ neck, catching a drop of rain with his tongue and making Thomas snort.

Sonya perched beside her brother, tapping at his forearm, speaking around a fork containing purely mango. She offered Thomas her tray as she continued to chew, full of every fruit that she’d not had the heart to tell Harriet she didn’t enjoy when presented with it. Thomas popped a tomato into his mouth, grinning around it.

Harriet and Aris follow, as always, not unlike Newt and Thomas themselves, and the latter offers Newt an Orange segment that he gladly takes.

“So what’d you think of your book?” She begins.

Newt didn’t need to see Thomas’ face to know he was laughing. He kicked at his thigh, grin spreading where Thomas yelped.

“Informative, really enjoying it.”

“Right,” She narrowed her eyes at the pair, frowning at the lack of yellow fruit below her. Gally pressed his own tray into her lap and she shot him a smile. “You didn’t read a sentence of it, did you?”

Gally watched on, his amusement clear, snorting when Thomas flushed. “He read at least a chapter to me this morning, Sonya. Something about, uh-”

“A diary, love.” Newt supplied with a snort, patting his thigh. Thomas pressed a kiss to his temple, grinning as Gally groaned.

“You’re disgusting.” Still, he smiled as he spoke. It was foreign to Newt, and he realized he had seen Gally smile just a handful of times in the time he’d known him.

Minho plopped down beside the builder, pressing a jar into the boy’s hand. He leaned over to squeeze Newt’s arm in greeting.

Gally’s expression didn’t falter, eyes trained on Minho’s hand. Minho sat back, knocking Gally’s shoulder with a smile.

“Hey shuckfaces,” Sonya raised her hand in greeting, Thomas merely lifting his head to mumble a  _hello_ back, “You planning on getting up and having fun like the rest of us?”

It occurred to Newt then just how small their unit was, squeezed together on the same log. He looked up, a burst of their bubble of intimacy, to several of their friends dancing together. Dancing being.. A vague term. Brenda was jumping in place, swinging her hands with Fry’s, their grins so bright he could feel their laughter as though it were right by him. Jorge watched from a chair opposite, his lips spread wide.

A stereo sat just outside of the hanger of the Berg, blasting a song that he found he knew every word to, despite having no recollection of it. He wanted to dance.

He stood on stiff legs, grabbing for Thomas’ forearm. The other boy stood, of course, initial confusion stemming any other expression.

“Wanna dance, Tommy?”

He watched Thomas fumble with the material of his shirt, teeth in his bottom lip. He ran his hand down his arm until their fingers were interlinked, placing his other hand at Thomas’ hip.

“Just go with it, nobody else has a clue what they’re doing either.”

Thomas breathed out, giving a small smile, watching the blonde beneath pretty eyelashes. Newt’s arms snaked around his waist and they were swaying - completely out of time, the wrong genre, even, but neither cared much at all.

“Y’know, I’m under the understanding that the tradition before the flare was to go on dates,” Newt pressed in the space between them. “What’d you think?”

Thomas nodded dumbly, cheeks red and highlighting the constellation of each and every mole that dotted his skin. “What would you like to do?”

“Well, we have all the time in the world to ourselves to figure it out, aye?”

“Yeah,” Thomas smiled wide, a strip of silver lighting his face. “I suppose we do.”

**Author's Note:**

> my twitter is @PAULROVlA (lowercase L) come say hello!


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